At Winter's Soul
by kingsmeadroad
Summary: At Christmas we like to remember those we've lost; and sometimes, they like to show us what we never lost at all.


For my friends.

"_Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?"_

- From Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

The world was free at last; Harry was free at last.

Or so people thought. It was not a well known fact that he came here every year, when the snow fell over the grounds and the iron twinkling stars shone out the clearer in the moonless sky. He could see his breath rising before him, steadily placating the biting chill of Winter's heart. The skies were clear and black as coal; icicles spiked elaborate points across the castle, and to the East he could see several pixies unwittingly casting a series of bobbing blue lights in front of the trees to the forest. It was undeniably beautiful.

But his hands were numb.

He had learned to cope with this. Only when the pain filtered through to his wrists and he felt the dull throb of frost creeping into his skin would he leave. It wasn't because he felt he had to serve some penance; that he had to take some of the pain. It was just that this was somewhere he was happiest. It was a reminder of a time before he knew what he would be, what he would do, what he would see.

Harry Potter was 35. And yet here he stood, black hair tousled evasively on his non-hatted head in the freezing fire of Christmas Eve. He was home- or at least, his first home as he knew it.

Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry shone behind him. In front of him stood what he had come to see. The white pavilion that marked a historical moment; a historical person. Albus Dumbledore had passed away many years before, and yet Harry could still picture him as clearly as ever.

He took his seat as he always had, ignoring the frost of the hard ground underneath him, and he looked at the magnificent stone in front of him. He knew exactly what Dumbledore might say, were he still alive.

"A magnificent feature Harry, but not a definition of the person inside, perhaps?"

A casual push in the right direction. No stone could hold the Dumbledore Harry had always known and loved. It represented his brilliance, but not him as a person.

"I think you believe that by coming here, you can assure yourself that I rest quietly and peacefully in the afterlife," said the calm and quiet tone of Albus Dumbledore.

"It's not that," murmured Harry, though he wasn't at all sure of it.

"Hmm. Then perhaps you feel that in coming here, you remain close to a person who always loved you for what you were, and taught you, dare I say it, some rather important things about the human soul?," prodded the voice amicably.

"I don't think so," Harry said, more assured now.

"So tell me Harry, why do you come here?"

The use of his name stirred a memory in Harry and he smiled.

"I come here to make sure that I don't forget."

The voice was as warm as honey, and Harry saw Dumbledore smile sadly.

"But dear boy, what is there to forget?"

Harry didn't say anything, and the voice did not return. He knew, as did the Dumbledore he sometimes spoke to in his head, what there was to forget.

Just because Dumbledore was gone, did not mean he was to be lost to faded, archaic memories. Harry had no shame in admitting that sometimes he imagined the old man was still alive. As vibrant as the sunset and as strong as the earth, Harry had spent hours talking to Dumbledore in his head. Sometimes he thought he was going mad. Other times he had a moment of clarity and in those times, he realised something very important.

Just because a person is gone, does not mean they have left us behind. In whatever way we imagine them, however we choose to recall their memory, they will always be there, standing right next to us, so proud of what we have become. It is remarkably simple to remember the wise things they said or the factual components of a life lived; what is hard is to laugh in the face of the sadness and thus to bring that person back to life for a time.

For some people, it is the image of a parent laughing, making jokes at the table, being slightly tipsy after a glass of egg nog at Christmas. For some, it is the memory of a sibling who allowed you to break their toys and yet forgave you. For some, it is the friend you danced with at the prom, the first boy you kissed, the first girl you loved, the special one you married and fell on top of trying to dance the first dance at the wedding reception.

For some people, it's about a dog who changed their perspective and their life (and along with it the lives of others!); for some it's about a national horror that forced them to mature and develop into the amazing people they are today. For others in the face of a desperately dark time, it is the knowledge that there is something left to fight for, always. And for a few, it is the image of a saviour who has left them behind and moved on. It is not a permanent separation; she is standing behind you, watching you drink white wine in the sun, beaming at you because you were, are, and will be forever, her world.

Harry sat in the snow until he heard the bell of the nearby village clang loudly- as he had at every Christmas when he attended Hogwart's School. A tiny tear slid down his cheek- a tear to help wash away what was past and to move forward to a brave new world.

And he knew that the Dumbledore he so admired and missed, would, were he alive, be standing next to Harry wearing a parrot on his head and considering the latest knitting patterns for toilet seat covers.

And the following morning, when he was awoken (much too early) by his rowdy, loud, headache- inducing and entirely beloved children, Harry groaned and slid out of bed, waved his wand to prepare breakfast, and hugged Ginny when she too crawled out from beneath the duvet.

And while his rambunctious children tore paper from boxes and screamed with glee in front of a roaring fire, he contemplated, as he did every Christmas Day, why he went to see his old friend each year. Why he woke up in the morning and played games with his children; why he still called on Hagrid and why he still spoke to Dudley.

And he questioned that above all else, in all we do and all we achieve each year, in the end only one thing matters- what will survive of us?

When Ginny handed him a cup of steaming coffee and James, little Albus and Lily crowded around for a family hug, he knew.

What will survive of us, is love.


End file.
